


In Vino Veritas

by Sadbhyl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-01
Updated: 2011-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-14 08:17:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sadbhyl/pseuds/Sadbhyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beer makes unexpected friendships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Vino Veritas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [almost_clara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/almost_clara/gifts).



> Written for the 2010 winter [**holmestice**](http://community.livejournal.com/holmestice/) exchange. [](http://almost-clara.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://almost-clara.livejournal.com/)**almost_clara** wanted domestic scenes and the officers of the Met being excellent. Here’s a little of both.

It started gradually.

Lestrade was the first one to invite John around to the pub.

They had just finished cracking a convoluted international money laundering scheme that had allowed Sherlock to apply both his computer skills and his knowledge of three different languages, including Farsi, while John and Lestrade sat back and watched.  John didn’t mind it these days, the quieter cases, the ones that didn’t involve as much running or shooting at things.  Sherlock didn’t seem to, either.  As long as his mind was busy, that was good enough. Most days.

Sherlock pulled the memory stick out of his computer, currently attached to the Metropolitan Police’s network, and handed it to Lestrade.  “I presume you can handle this from here.”

“Not much left but to post it to Interpol with a ream of paperwork.  I think I’ve got that much covered.”

Sherlock shoved his arms in his coat and started pulling on his gloves.  “I’m off to Bart’s, then.  Molly’s got a drug addict with a badly applied tourniquet on the slab.  You coming, John?”

“God, no.  I’ve seen enough gangrene for a lifetime, I don’t need to see anymore.”

“All right, I’ll see you at home.”

“I’ll get dinner in.  Moroccan?”

“Sounds good.  Thank you.  Lestrade.”  He turned with the usual flourish and stalked out of Lestrade’s office.

“I swear he does that on purpose,” Lestrade groused good-naturedly.

“Oh, I know he does.”

Lestrade stuck the drive in an envelope with a cover sheet and dropped it in his outbox.  “I’m going for a pint.  Care to join me?”

John automatically glanced after Sherlock, who was already long gone.  He wouldn’t be home for hours, and there was nothing there for John to do but watch early evening repeats or clean.  “Sounds good.”

The local for officers of the Metropolitan was the Constable on Broadway, what looked to be an old establishment but not on the tourist itinerary.  Lestrade got the first pints, John got the second, and they sat at a table in relative silence, companionable but not personal.  They talked occasionally, but never about anything significant.  John waited for the usual questions about Afghanistan or Sherlock, but instead Lestrade asked about his schooling and where he’d grown up.  In return John learned about Lestrade’s seven-year-old daughter and the time he’d dislocated his shoulder playing rugby at uni.  By the end of it, John was thinking of him as Greg.

Greg glanced at his watch and took a last mouthful before standing up.  “Gotta get home.  Can I drop you?”

John shook his head.  “There’s a tube station right across the street.  The Circle Line will drop me practically at my doorstep.  Besides, I promised to pick up dinner.”

“If you’re sure.”  Lestrade—Greg, pulled on his coat.  “Darts next time.”

“You do know I’m a crack shot?”

“I’ve seen what you can do with a gun.”  He grinned like he was sharing a secret.  “I’m betting you aren’t as good without a trigger.”

“Putting money on that?”

“Definitely.”

“Next time, then.”

It was so ordinary, it seemed alien.

Greg took him two out of three legs.

Donovan was next.  “I hear you cut your leash once in a while.”

“I don’t have a leash.”  He didn’t look at Sherlock, who was pacing the distance from the door to the body on the warehouse floor.

“No?  Good.  I’ll meet you at the Constable at seven, then.”

“Sergeant, I’m flattered, but—”

“Not a date.  You insist on hanging around the freak, someone’s got to make sure you have a bit of normal.  Maybe you’ll see reason.”

John clenched his jaw.  “On two conditions.”

She raised an eyebrow but listened.

“One, you don’t try to make me see reason.”

“And two?”

“You don’t call Sherlock freak while we’re out.”

It was Donovan’s turn to tighten her jaw.  “Seven o’clock then.”

“I look forward to it.”

Sherlock was studying him when he turned back to the murder.  “Problem?”

He looked as though he were going to comment but stopped himself.  Finally he gestured upwards.  “It came from the ceiling.”

Typical.

Drinks with Donovan was not what he’d expected.  She did ask about Afghanistan, but not in the way people usually did, looking for the horror stories.  “My brother served,” she admitted.  “He didn’t make it out of Helmand.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.”

John took a chance and asked a question that had been nagging him for months.  “Why on earth are you with Anderson?”

Sally glared at him over the edge of her beer.  “Do I get to ask you why you’re with—”  She stopped herself from saying “the freak”, John could tell.  “With himself?”

“We aren’t together.  So no.”

Sally rolled her eyes but let it go.  “Tom’s not so bad.  He’s just not very happy.”

John was curious enough not to interrupt her.

She set her glass down, turned it on the bar a couple of times.  “He didn’t want to be a doctor, you know.  Hated medicine.  But his family, they made him.  So as soon as he got out, he went into forensics.  It was the furthest away from what they wanted he could get.”

“But still not what he wants to be doing.”

If she was surprised by the observation, she didn’t show it.  “I don’t think so.  He doesn’t talk about what he wants very much.”  She picked up the glass again, staring into it.  “He got married because they told him to, too.  Even picked her out for him.  He hates her.”

“Is that why he’s with you?”

She sneered.  “Look at me.  I’m not really what a white, upper middle class control freak father would want for his son and heir, am I?”

“I think you sell yourself short.”

She paled, swallowed without drinking.

John took up his own drink.  “I just think you could do a lot better than being some plonk’s rebellion.”

Her head snapped around as she glared at him, but John could swear he saw tears gathering in the corners of her eyes.  For a moment, he thought she was going to slap him.  Instead she got up and stormed out of the pub, leaving him with her half-drunk beer.

The invitations started coming with more frequency.  Dimmock—Andy joined him and Greg a few times.  John got to know most of Greg’s team, getting invited along to team building nights or running into them at the pub when he was out with Greg.  Sally seemed to forgive him, although they never went out only the two of them again.

Sherlock looked up from his microscope as John got his coat down to meet Greg for their weekly.  “Off to the pub again.”

“You don’t mind?”

Sherlock gave him the look reserved for lesser mortals.  “Why should I mind?”

John knew better.  “I just thought, since we didn’t have anything on…”

“It’s fine, John.”

John hesitated.  “You know, you could come with.  Lestrade wouldn’t mind.”

Sherlock turned back to his microscope.

Some of the younger constables and sergeants who had served in the wars invited him along some nights.  They never talked about what they’d seen, just sat around watching the matches, talked about work and shared a camaraderie of experience no one who hadn’t been there would understand.

When Anderson invited him for a pint, he couldn’t refuse.

They never said anything, but John had gotten adept enough at reading people to tell the man was miserable.  He hung over his beer, head supported on one hand, never even looking at John.  John was starting to suspect that the only reason he was there was so that Anderson didn’t have to drink alone when, out of nowhere, he said, “She left me.”

“Your wife?”

“Sally.”

He resisted the urge to say, “Good for her.”  “I’m sorry.”

Anderson went back to sulking over his pint.

The drug ring bust was a team effort, no matter how much Sherlock might have protested.  He’d done the bulk of the deductive work, but it took all of Lestrade’s team and a large unit of the Met’s finest to do the physical work of the arrests.  Thirty-five ring members, including the two day traders and the equities trader who ran the whole thing like a contraband trading pit.  It was a mob scene as they shipped them all back to booking, but Sherlock had cracked the code they used on their books, kept in old fashioned paper ledgers, so everyone was riding high.

“Wrap it up here, guys,” Lestrade called to his team.  “Everyone at the Constable at eleven thirty.  First round’s on me.”  A low cheer went out from the officers.  Lestrade turned to John.  “You’ll be there as well.”

“Sure, of course.”  He glanced at Sherlock, who was pulling his gloves on, his face unreadable.  At this point in a case, he was usually crowing.  John stepped to his elbow.  “Come with us.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not.  You deserve a celebration as much as they do.  One drink won’t kill you.”

“No, but most of them might.”

“No, they won’t.  After a night like this, they’ll forgive a lot.”

Uncertainty flickered over his features for the briefest moment.  John glanced at Lestrade, who could see what was going on and looked away.  John stiffened his resolve.  “All right, then, I won’t go, either.”

Sherlock gave him a baleful look.  “Emotional blackmail, John?  Really?”

John shook his head.  “If you don’t belong there, then I don’t either.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.  I know you enjoy your evenings—”  There was uncertainty around Sherlock’s eyes, though.  A rare enough sight, but John had learned to read it.

“Doesn’t matter.  Let’s go.”

Still Sherlock hesitated.  “What would this entail?”

The fact that he even had to ask spoke volumes of his social experience.  He could sweep into any pub in England and fit in perfectly, so long as he was being someone else.  But to be Sherlock Holmes, hanging out in a pub with some mates, that was beyond him.  “You’ll have a drink.”  John refused to be condescending.  “You’ll play a leg of darts with Lestrade.  He might even beat you.”  Sherlock snorted, making John smile.  “Don’t laugh. He beats me as often as not.  Plus you see him five points every time you insult him.”  Sherlock glared at him.  “It’s just a pub night, Sherlock.  It’s not a surrender.”

As usual, John had no idea what Sherlock was looking for when he studied him with those alien eyes of his.  “We’d have time to get some dinner beforehand.”

John didn’t grin.  “Absolutely.”

“There’s an Ethiopian place near Victoria Street I’ve been meaning to try.”

“Sounds perfect.”  He caught Greg’s eye.  “We’ll see you at the Constable at eleven thirty.”

If Lestrade was surprised, he didn’t show it.  “See you both then.”

John had to referee the match.  Sherlock didn’t think “idiot” was an insult.


End file.
